slippery devil. The Prince Regent demands it.” He strode to the door. “I imagine you’ll want to take a look at the crime scene. It’s over in Ludgate Hill.” He shot Alex a teasing smile. “I’m sure you already know that. No doubt you’ve purchased plenty of pretty baubles there yourself since your return from Waterloo.”
Alex hid a wince at the man’s uncanny perspicacity. He’d been at the jeweler’s only last month to buy a parting gift for Alicia, his mistress. The discreet widow had been disappointed but pragmatic when he’d ended their month-long liaison. She’d been hoping for more than a casual physical relationship—a wedding band, in truth—but he’d never pretended to be looking for a wife. He doubted he’d ever be looking for a wife.
Not that there was anything wrong with the married state, of course; witness Benedict’s current blissful existence with his heiress Georgiana. But unlike Alex, Benedict wasn’t practically blind in one eye, nor as cynical when it came to women. As a second son, Alex was under no pressure to marry and produce heirs. He enjoyed women, their company, their bodies, but he’d never felt the need to limit himself to just one.
Except once. Almost four years ago, at a masked ball on the eve of his leaving for the Peninsular, he’d met the woman of his dreams. A woman who’d not only excited him physically but challenged him mentally. A woman whose husky laugh and intoxicating scent had wrapped themselves around his heart and ensnared it so completely, he’d almost forgotten his own name. Un coup de foudre the French called it. A thunderclap. And they were right. He’d felt a deep sense of inevitability, of utter rightness. An absolute conviction that, against all odds, here, finally, was the woman for him.
They’d talked. Danced. Flirted. They’d shared one perfect kiss.
Then she’d disappeared.
He’d never even discovered her name.
Alex closed the file in front of him with a snap and exhaled deeply. God, what a naïve fool he’d been back then. Three years in the King’s Own Rifles had beaten such optimism out of him. He’d traipsed through Spain and Portugal, France and Belgium, and witnessed the true horrors of war, the brutal nature of both men and women. It had taught him the futility of such dreams.
He still dreamed of her, though. Not every night, but often enough. He’d wake with the lingering scent of her perfume on the breeze—an exotic scent he’d never encountered since. The feel of her lips on his. And a cock hard enough to hammer nails into solid steel.
It was ridiculous. He didn’t know her hair color—she’d been wearing a powdered wig in the antiquated style of the French court some fifty years before. He didn’t know the color of her eyes—they’d been hidden behind a ludicrous mask that covered the top half of her face.
The thought of her had nearly driven him to distraction. He’d been so frustrated, never solving the mystery, never knowing if she was someone’s wife, someone’s mistress, or someone with whom he might have considered a future.
Alex rolled his shoulders. He should have forgotten her by now. It wasn’t as though he’d remained celibate over the past four years. He doubted she would have either. And yet, he’d found himself searching for her ever since he’d been back in town. He scanned every room he entered, every face, paradoxically convinced that if he just saw her—just once—he’d recognize her. His body would recognize hers. His soul would recognize her.
He huffed air out of his nostrils, irritated with himself. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? As the co-owner of a gambling den, he was more than capable of calculating the odds of such a probability: long to the point of absurdity. She was doubtless a married matron by now with a parcel of brats driving her to distraction.
And he was blissfully free, a bachelor of means, with a handsome face to match his handsome fortune. He could, within reason, have any woman he wanted with the lift of an eyebrow, the flash of a smile.
Except that one. The one that got away.
Was that it? Perhaps the reason his mystery woman still plagued him was the sense of unfinished business. He’d have tired of her within a month if they’d ever been properly introduced. It was merely the attraction of the unknown that allowed her to retain her unholy allure.
The same principle applied to the Nightjar; it was the challenge of the unknown. Alex hated to